Valentimes Day Cards for non-suckers

Is love pooing in your heart and making you believe that you enjoy your shit-filled arteries? Here’s some cards that might suit you better than whatever Hallmark is doing these days.

Valentimes card 1

Wait, like The Walking Dead or… Real Housewives. Whatever your answer is basically determines ‘soulmate’ status.



valentimes card 2












And you are with me <3

And you are with me ❤


Check out some more Valentimes Day Cards that I did a few years ago. Bleak.


Public Holidays

Dear Neighbour,

I hate public holidays. I hate them with a grim, itching ferocity. I hate the fact that I work on them, but don’t receive penalty rates. I hate the lack of public transport and open shops so I can buy my little sandwiches. But most of all, neighbour of mine, I hate them because I know I am going to be kept awake all night by that satanic ritual you somehow believe is singing.

When we first moved in a few years ago, I remember introducing myself to you. You said ‘It’s a nice street. You won’t have any problems from me and my girlfriend either – we work hard during the week and party hard on the weekend.’ I very clearly explained that my household was the exact opposite of that, being that we always work weekends and we ‘party hard’ (watch Parks and Recreation) on weeknights, if we’re not working that too. Nowhere in that brief and singular encounter did you warn us about your propensity to play Pearl Jam covers on a steel stringed guitar as loud as you can until four in the morning.

I understand why your musical aspirations have been banished to the witching hour – if you had tried to play without night’s concealing darkness, I’m fairly sure you would have been lynched by an angry mob. I once heard a cat caught in barbed wire chew its own leg off over four agonizing hours before dying of blood loss, and that was still preferable to listening to you last night. (I thought it was having sex, if you’re wondering why I didn’t help it) Your song choice has reminded me not only that Powerfinger exist, but the name of some of their songs. I have nostalgia for Saturday night, where I was kept awake by that screaming harridan in the apartments overlooking our houses five hour, profanity laced rant against Jews. That was a holiday compared to you. That was my nirvana. (Not Nirvana, you butchered them too.)

What kind of awful life do you live? I can only imagine it is one crippled beneath the burden of your vast yen to be a musician. You spend your days boxed in a cubicle, collating data for a soy sauce import company – but it’s not who you are, man. You think your destiny is to be the next Eddie Vedder, or bass player from Matchbox 20.  Unable to express yourself any other way, you wait for darkness to fall, so you can obnoxiously scream your pain into the night. You’re like Batman, if Batman was the worst thing ever. You’re the George Clooney Batman.

But pity is a young man’s game, and no matter how awful you find import/export, I still want you to die in an acid vat. Your music is so awful and dangerous that much like the T-1000, every trace of you must be erased from time. I understand now, that my entire life from now until I die, is just going to be an evolving version of me yelling ‘Get off my lawn.’ This is because of you. You are the reason my curmudgeon factor has aged out of sync with my youthful face. You are the reason I don’t give money to the homeless anymore.

But the suppurating injury on top of this lengthy insult is that because you have chosen public holidays, fucking, bullshit, public holidays as your time to manifest your frustrated desires, I am now left sitting here at work after a seething night of no sleep, with no coffee. Coffee doesn’t exist in the world of public holidays. I could forgive a lot if I was pumped full of delicious caffeine. But I’m not. I have no coffee.

You’re a dick-tornado, a whirling unwashed scrotum of horror.

Die with haste,





About four years ago my partner and I moved into a shitty apartment in a shitty suburb named Sutherland. Stained beige carpets crawled all the way to flakey white walls and the smell of old cigarettes and fried food wafted through the hallway like a depressing zephyr. I remember as I shifted a microwave up the long hallways, a bald goblin-man came out of his apartment, looked at me, inserted his hand down his pants and then whispered ‘Well, well, well…’

On one balcony overlooking the security door sat an overweight man in various Hawaiian shirts with two young, bored looking Vietnamese ladies. The first twenty times you saw this tableau was unremarkable – just some people chain smoking in gloomy silence, necking from bottles of five dollar goon. Until the startling realisation, somewhere around a year later, that you’ve never, ever looked up at that balcony and NOT seen them. Rain, scorching heat, the middle of the night or the early morning. Always there, never aging. As if someone had set up the worlds most depressing animatronic ride in a terrible theme park called Sutherland Land.


Below us was a lady we named ‘Shouty Mum’ who I’m sure I’ve written about before. We always knew Shouty Mum was awake due to the aforementioned shouting. She spent her time giving tirades against her two early primary school children, which consisted of topics like ‘I’ve never known anybody who touches their poo’ and ‘Food doesn’t go there!’

But all this was nothing compared to the realisation, the day after we’d moved all our belongings into this hell-hole, that the apartment was swarming with fleas. Now, our real estate agents, a shadowy corporation called ‘East West Alliance’ which was clearly a front for some kind of international crime syndicate (my money is on white slavery) dealt with our panicked pleas by hanging up on us. So it was up to us to fork out the money for pest control. But all that’s behind us now, a misadventure of youth that I can use to lecture other peoples children when they’re experiencing teenage misfortunes in the future, which I can only imagine will be robot acne. An upsetting period of time that I’ve left behind – that is until it followed me.

You know that one hot day that just happened in Sydney? Forty three degrees, bushfires, hot wind like someone forcing a packet of silicon gel down your throat? When I came home from work that night at around 9pm, and walked into my house which radiated trapped heat like a raft of boners, I had a tried and tested plan to get through the night. There would be no sleeping, I knew this. So it was going to be fantasy books and tall glasses of Hendricks and tonic and cucumber, built over so much ice. So after setting this all up, I sat on our sweaty leather couches, took a sip of my drink, and then freaked out as fleas attacked my neck. After running around in circles for a little bit, I realised that Sutherland had followed me. You can leave Sutherland Land, but Sutherland Land never leaves you.

The next day, I rose with the dawn from my moist bower and realised I had two options. I could collapse in a quivering ball of pity and terror, hoping the bloodsuckers couldn’t climb stairs into my bedroom. Or I could devise a plan of attack so ruthless and relentless that Nixon in the middle of the Vietnam war would have been like ‘Woah, dude, u srs?’ From research I discovered that the fleas had laid eggs in our couch, which had hatched all at once from the heat, mistaking it for the delicious comfort of being buried in a bison’s coat or something. So before I could do anything else, the couch had to go. It was a large three part leather monstrosity, inherited from Bridget’s grandparents. Heavy, sturdy and in various states of dilapidation. Unfortunately we had literally just missed the local free council cleanup, so I wasn’t able to put it out on the curb, lest I face a hefty dumping fine (which would probably be enforced due to all our nosy neighbours). The only other option was to put it out in our tiny back courtyard. However the problem my housemate Stephen and I discovered was that they didn’t fit through that door. It was also at this time that when try to maneuver a section, I caught a glimpse into a foam section and saw a horrifying eco-system of crawling fleas. They were attacking Stephens hands and my ankles. There could be no vacillation. Fifteen minutes later, I was now a man who possessed a crowbar and a mallet. I named them ‘Russell Crowbar’ and ‘Chris Hemsworth’ and used them to systematically dismantle our couches so we could put them outside.


So I’m chuffed that I own tools now, but do they have to be so… thievey?

It was hard work, a mixture of precision destruction and wanton violence. At one point I felt a pang of conscience – while the leather and foam was in fairly bad shape (and SWARMING WITH FLEAS LETS NOT FORGET THIS) the frame was so sturdy and well made. The Ikea furniture of today just can’t compete with the great slabs of hardwood and bolts of aged iron. It seemed such a shame to break it into kindling.

But then I opened up the largest couch slab and found a fully formed ants nest. I’m not talking about some ants – it was like looking into a glass ant farm, except without the safety and security of a glass wall. There were weird white drones and strange constructions made of dust. In the middle there was a huge Queen ant, strangely melded into the wall. I couldn’t quite face destroying all that, so I isolated it and put it outside to deal with later. As a strange aside, when I did finally deal with it, the nest had fully evacuated, leaving only the weird abandoned organic spires and the Queen, dead, with her head chewed off.

There were days of washing anything cloth from the loungeroom and vacuuming and chemical bombs. The couch was separated into its composite parts. I realised this was the closest I’ve ever been to dealing with a corpse, and as I skinned the leather and bagged the stuffing, crushed the sturdy frame with a mallet, I knew that I would probably be fairly decent at hiding a body.


This is my Snowtown.

The fleas were dead, my campaign waged with grim brutality. While I wouldn’t say I enjoyed the experience, I did come to appreciate two things. The first was my efficiency. I want to be the kind of person who when presented with a problem is able to smash it with cleverly named tools and shopping lists on my iPad and plans and stratagems. I don’t want to feel helpless beneath the relentless assault that is life. Which brings me to my second point – action. 2013 has been a dick-tornado of shitness. Deaths in the family and the slow, agonising, heart breaking onslaught of Alzheimers. The kind of inevitable sadness of age and circumstance. I went to stay with my parents at the worst of it, when one grandmother had died, and the other was in the process of being put in the dementia ward. My parents were so sad and tired, and I found that my only real function was mixing endless gin and tonics and pouring wine. When the people you love are in pain around you, you want to fix it. If only there was something for me to smash up and move away and bomb the shit out of. Instead it’s just about weathering it. Letting the horror happen and getting to the other side. But not with fleas. With fleas, I’m Genghis Khan baby.


0/5 stars.

People Who Talk In Theatres

 “If you take sexual advantage of her, you’re going to burn in a very special level of hell. A level they reserve for child molesters and people who talk at the theatre.” Shepherd Book, Firefly.


This post is dedicated to the three girls who loomed over us last night at The Tallest Man on Earth concert at The Factory Theatre in Marrickville. Why is this in the ‘stars’ section? Because I got to see The Tallest Man on Earth and he was sublime. Utterly, utterly perfect.


Here’s where we get to the meat of the situation, the ropes of stringy gristle and chewed nubs of intestine and spleen that are hanging bloodily from the gaping zombie torso that is this situation. These girls, standing so very close to our chairs, talked the entire show. I’m not talking about hushed whispers about how awed they were at the superb concert we were seeing. I’m talking about raucous, cackling, shouted conversation like a cheap prostitute arguing with a flock of parrots about cultural differences. I’m talking the volumes and intonations of a Catherine Wheel strapped to six cats and released in a space shuttle. And I’m talking about subject matter that would make an NRL team composed entirely of moss and amoeba feel intellectual superiority. Here’s a quick portrait of how these harpies looked:


Yeah I know, right!

Why didn’t I simply stand up to them, you ask? With great dignity, explain to them why their behaviour is akin to throwing sharks into a newborn child’s crib? Well, I did manage to ask them to be quiet not once, but twice. And so did a gentleman in front of me. And so did his girlfriend. And did they shut the fucking hell up? No.

And this is why I declare a pogrom against theatre talkers. This is why if all the people who talked in theatres all decided to move to one country and become a distinctly separate race, I would relax my normally stringent distaste of genocide. 

They managed to drive even further down the long roads of theatre talking horror and they put their club-like feet firmly on the stupid accelerator. When two of them went off to have a smoke (and at this point the assembled audience must have been hoping for a newer, more instant type of lung cancer to strike them down), the third one started talking on her phone. Her dedication to ruining our acoustic experience was so devout, that she actually phoned a friend in order to help carry it out. By this point, the last few rows were visibly annoyed. In fact, when the smokers came back, they were probably greeted by something like this:

Holy crap I couldn’t even be bothered finishing this picture. You get the idea.
Blobs with expressions. 

Eventually they just left. Perhaps the deep sense of unwelcome permeating the room began to pierce the thick layer of empty screeching and the fog from their dual-wielding of Red Bull and Carlton Draught. Or perhaps they’d heard of a funeral that they could go and have loud anal sex at. Or maybe they are still wandering the streets of Sydney, smearing themselves in their own faeces, emitting a low grunting noise sporadically and collecting old plastic spoons to insert up their noses. 


0/5 stars.

Miranda Devine

It seems to me that the readers of this blog fall into two camps. One camp likes it when I review the back of a shoe or my lack of pants or unicorn eyes. The other is Camp Granada. Hello!
Anyway, I said I wouldn’t do another review of a person for a while, but then this Miranda Devine thing happened, but it’s OK, because she’s not really a person, more like institutionalised stupidity.


If you haven’t already, read Devine’s article here. Making sense of that article is like trying to play dot-to-dot on the hung, flayed and dried fur of a cheetah. It’s distasteful, offensive, cruel, illogical and completely pointless. After being summarily offended, I re-read the article with the intention of joining those dots. My critical faculties, who I imagine as a pleasantly plump retiree, sitting out in the back garden of my mind wearing cableknit, was unfortunately not up to the task. In fact, they suffered a massive heart attack and their face melted and was eaten by the tiny dogs that are my common sense and sense of ethical responsibilities. Thanks Miranda Devine, you killed my brain-pensioner.

But I wouldn’t let all that made up nonsense stand in my way! I persisted, trying to see how Penny Wong’s incipient child caused the London riots, how the presence of a penis in a family will benefit it, how being Catholic had anything to do with the patronising inspidity of the last paragraph of that article. Comprehension eluded me, until with a snap like time flowing backwards or the invention of testicles, my brain learned how to see the world like Miranda Devine does.

Oh, I get it now. It’s all coming together, like maniac soup.

It’s a world without logic or comprehension, where simply the presence of two things can logically lead to yet more unidentified objects. With all the grace and skill of a blind, whisky sick cowboy riding an enormous earthworm, Devine rounds up whatever unfortunate objects, concepts and events she can find and rustles them into the shit-stained paddock that she calls her articles.


It’s this kind of revolutionary thinking that led my fellow Twitter brethren @Flyfromadream to make the link between ‘journalist’ Miranda Devine and south Sydney train station, Miranda Station.  Most normal people realise that the only connection between the two is one of proper nounery, but not with the patented Devine way of thinking. Is Miranda Devine a train station in disguise, and if so, what is her secret agenda? Was Miranda Devine a train station first, or did she eventually devolve in a platform for teenagers from the Shire to disembark upon so that they can shop in the largest shopping centre in the Southern Hemisphere?


Maybe this isn’t a new way of thinking. Maybe her way of drawing connections between entirely separated events is exactly what it looks like – a spurious attempt at writing relevant journalism by a bitter, conservative, homophobic, relic from the unenlightened past. Maybe. But if anyone was to ever embody the ideals and writing style of a train station from the Shire, it would have to be Miranda Devine. What was my point again? Oh yeah. The riots. I’m so against them.


0/5. I need to review something favourably next, I’m beginning to feel… dirty.

Fred Nile

There’s a host of great articles about Fred Nile swanning around the internet at the moment. Many of these are witty, erudite, informative and relevant. I felt like I needed to contribute some kind of honking, goose-like piece to balance the spectrum.


In these confusing times, it’s often helpful to think of government as the cast from the hit Christian television show, 7th Heaven. This is because Fred Nile is already officially the Father of the House in the House of Representatives and because he truly does think he is that patronising, dead-eyed father from 7th Heaven, doling out unwanted advice to his terrified children. But instead of the feel-good plotlines about less-hot daughter trying her darndest to help a rambunctious African-American basketballer find Jesus, we have Father Nile taking Bob Brown to electro-shock therapy and counselling Julia Gillard about her living in sin issues.

This of course hinges on the premise that you are vaguely familiar with Australian politics AND the television show 7th Heaven. If you aren’t, you’re a lucky person and should immediately flee to some kind of Mexican desert and be absolutely blissful in your ignorance. Also, he has wizard eyebrows.

The world of men shall fall. Because that sounds really gay.


Throughout life we choose our insanities. Some people call them hobbies, others pastimes, some people have beliefs and others have faith. The wonderful thing about all this is that people come together, drawn by the same dangerous behaviour and celebrate it together. For me and my friends it revolves around our sick fascination with the written word. For Fred Nile it was his far-out superstitious belief in the bearded sky man who made us all (TM). Yet, it came to a point where a large group of other bearded sky-man devotees decided his views were too strange. Largely this issue centred around his insistence on taking a book of compiled oral myths, histories and symbols completely – and un-ironically – literally.

For some reason, we still allow this man to represent portions of us via democratic means. I’d like to see how seriously I’d be taken if I was a Tolkien literalist. If I sashayed through parliament speaking Quenyan Elven at Kevin Rudd, and shooting arrows at Bronwyn Bishop. Is it because the Bible is older than Lord of the Rings? Whatever, I know what I prefer, and I know which has a clearer ethical arc. That’s shit that you can believe in, throw the damn ring in the volcano.

The tragedy is that so vehement and virulent is Fred Nile’s literalist belief in a world of women turning into salt pillars, and whores who wash hippie’s feet for free, that a strange phenomenon occurs.


This phenomenon is called Nileism, where people who may have held on to some belief of their own, usually ancillary or oppositional to Fred Nile’s, will be so distraught and distressed by coming into contact with Father Fred, that they will cease to believe in anything at all. It’s like a missionary travelling to an island and preaching a complete lack of conversion, a negative, a void. Things they might have once held up as truths were now devalued by a man who honestly believed an ancient Jewish dude could turn water into wine. (IF THERE IS ANY HINT OF THIS OCCURRING, I AM SIGNING UP TO THE CRAZY BRIGADE).



Love, Patrick.


Ever seen that film Mad Max? When I was a kid, we were going to go and see that in the cinema, but then my friends mum decided it was too violent, so we had to go and see Sister Act instead.

Watch out for hoons, and don’t thrust yourself off the balcony. Advice to live by from Bridget’s mum. I’ve never thrust myself off a balcony, and I also keep a weather eye out for hoons, mostly because of these two anecdotes…
1. During the jingoistic milkshake that was the Cronulla riots, I was lucky enough to be living in Caringbah with some wildly awesome people. We were sitting in the lounge room watching the news with that expression you get when you feel like disowning your own country.  Look at a picture of Barnaby Joyce, now look at your face. Yup, that expression. 
I wish I was French.

The news then reported that gangs of hoons (seriously, they used that word) were careening down the Kingsway, looting and burning the entire way. The Kingsway happened to be the big street our house was on. So, as we are watching and discussing this, we hear this almighty caterwauling out the front. Peering on a few centimetres over the TV and through the window, we were treated to the sight of a cluster of hoons smashing a car with baseball bats, right in front of our house. After they had sped away, us and many of our neighbours went to have a look at the damage. You just don’t expect this sort of thing in the suburbs.
But then another wave of hoons came along! Waves of hoons! And I forget the witty banter that was exchanged, but it ended up with us fleeing the glass bottles thrown at us. They cut up my housemates leg a treat! The next day channel ten filmed our blood spattered front steps, and if you peered carefully, you could just make out a groggy me peering out the window in my underpants.
2. I get yelled at from cars a lot. I don’t know if it’s my provocative walk, excellent fashion sense or maybe they are fans of my blog (LOL). Usually they are pointing out their views of what my sexual orientation is, which I assume is hoonkinds way of being helpful. I’d love to pioneer a hoon-group which just speed along and notice things.
“Woo! Raptor. SHIT YEAH, FLOWER!”
One day I was walking through Wollongong, and I heard a carload of hoons coming up the street. They were bipping their horns and playing Blink 182, Enema of the State to be precise. And I’m nothing if not erotically precise.
As they get to me, they slow down a fraction and start wolf whistling and telling me how I’m a very sexually desirable female.  But before the car sped away, they screeched to a halt, and then reversed slowly back down the street, and stopped the car to look at me. The hoons looked at me. I looked at the hoons. They looked at each other. We all realised that I was not in fact ‘A sexy slut-bitch’. An awkward moment passed as they considered their own sexuality.
Then one said ‘fag!’ derisively, and they sped off.
meh???? 0.

I am sick

I have a head cold. Snot fountains.


Are you kidding?


STEP 1 “The sneaky whimper”

Coining the phrase that the long suffering love of my life, Bridget, used in relation to me:
‘Things took a turn for the feeble’.
At this stage, it’s not enough for you to simply feel dreadful – everybody nearby must know also. Everywhere your significant other/housemate/boss goes, they must find you curled up, snivelling and looking at them through a haze of pain and self pity. What does this accomplish? They might bring you some orange juice.

Oh hi… I don’t feel too good. The saucepan? Yeah… I guess you can have it. Sniff.


Maybe you have a ball to attend, or the prospect of early morning work, but you suddenly realise you don’t want to be sick. You’re crushing garlic into a potentially deadly smoothy made of crushed paracetamol and berocca, while gargling shoe polish and applying various oils to your chakras. Nothing is too strange for you at this point. If you’re like me, of course, you may over diagnose yourself with fake hypochondria juice and then feel even worse.

STEP 3 “A stationary invalid”

People admire your dignity and fragile strength, as you lay weighted beneath several blankets and your crippling illness. You haven’t moved in days, and whatever pustulant room you chose to inhabit is encrusted with tissues, various confectionary wrappers and pity. Remain in this position for long enough that even the illness you are infected with finds you pitiful and moves on to more interesting climates.

Follow these handy steps, and you can go home and be sick too!


0/5 stars. I’m siiiiiiiiicckkkkkkk. You’re lucky you’re getting this half assed post, and not just a bag full of phlegm.


I have spent four hours trying to work out when the introduction of a rat into the scenario is a good thing. There are none.
You know what I hate? Lack of disease. Imagine what life would be like without millions of people suffering from buboes and pustulating sores? And who can forget the good time that was the Black Plague in the aptly named Dark Ages? What a shame that the Great Fire of London came along and ended that party.
What, it’s clearly London. Can’t you tell by the clock and the fire?
Yeah, and those are rats attacking people, not furry cups.
So, really, kudos have yet to be extended to the great plague enablers known as rats. If they weren’t around to spread disease and bite things and carry louse in the labyrinthine underground mazes of the cities of the world, where would we be?
God bless you, rats.
A rat by itself is terrifying enough. I’m fairly sure that the proboscis ridden snot fish looks down on rats. There’s something about knowing that they are designed to burrow into entrails that really stops you from seeing the positives in an animals appearance. Guess I’m shallow. 
But it’s never just one rat. There’s always more. 
And this is what I hate the most about them. THEY LIVE IN THE CREEPIEST PLACES EVER.
When I was a kid, I lived in a country named Qatar. There was this ridiculous playground that we frequented, at a place called ‘The Falcon Club’. It was enormous, and filled with sad, broken play equipment and stretched for miles. You know that scene in Terminator 2 where Sarah Connor has a vision of the playground being hit by a nuclear bomb? That’s what this place looked like. And it was awesome. And dominating the middle of it, was a slightly smaller than scale castle.
It was boarded off, and all the kids believed it was because a kid had died in there. And when you looked over the shattered draw bridge and through the chinks in the nailed up gate, there was something about the black shadows that made you think they were right. 
They weren’t. Instead, one day as the harsh desert sun began to set, I decided I would brave the castle. I shimmied over the wall (because I was young and spry then. Now I’m old and… drunk), and to my horror realised that the entire bowels of the castle were open to air, and through the shattered floorboards I could see a HORDE of rats seething around.
Of course, I was never able to tell anybody what I’d seen, because I’d broken the rules by trying to infiltrate the castle, and I remember when my parents asked me why I’d run screaming into the restaurant, I made up something about a kid throwing a wasp at me.
I hope nobody ever throws a wasp at me.
Isn’t that weird that I drew myself as an adult.
Anyway, in that vein, near the ABC building there’s this creepy disused tunnel that used to be where trains went. Sure, it’s dark and full of rubbish, but that normally wouldn’t terrifying me. I wouldn’t have a picnic there, but I don’t have to make up stuff about big boys throwing wasps at me in there.
But twice now, I’ve been walking near it after work, and rats have come running out of the tunnel AT ME. And I know my action movies – when the rats are scared, that means something worse is in there. Or maybe a kid died in there. I don’t know. I hate rats.
0/5 stars.
Today I learnt that I can’t draw rats or London.


That awkward moment whence people try to take your objects on the street and you are not OK with it.


I’m sure if one is a mugger then this is a highly lucrative position with a high risk to reward ratio.


I’ve only been mugged once, and even then it was a strange and awkward experience based off terrible misconceptions. It was also very scary. Me and my friend Anna were in Newtown many years ago, and we’d decided on some form of whim to visit her ex-boyfriend.
Now, the problem with any story involving Anna and I at this point in my life, is that you can never tell at what point or stage or level of drunk we are at. Perhaps we went there already drunk, or perhaps we got drunk there. Who knows. But an accurate summary of the night involved sitting on this guy’s windowsill screaming at each other that the other was a communist and should be sent to the Gulag. Then Anna stole a bunch of his knick knacks, and we stumbled out the door.

As we walked out the front of the apartment building, a gang of youths surrounded us. I believe there were close to twenty, and each of them were very aggressive.  Opposing this dread crew was the drunken spine imitation of a sick giraffe that I resembled and a tiny drunk redhead with Russian roots and one kidney.
The spokesperson muscled into my blurry vision and jabbed his finger into my chest.

“Were you those cunts that were calling us communists?”

I am confused. I am speechless. I am scared.

Anna, however, was only exhibiting one of those flaws.
“You know, it’s not a bad thing to be a communist.”

As if this was some sort of signal, these democracy loving hooligans put me in a headlock and started punching me in the face. Others took Anna’s handbag and rifled through it, taking her iPod and various other electronic paraphernalia.

As I am being beaten (fairly mildly, I must say) Anna is spouting an admirable diatribe about the comparative benefits of socialism and the historical relevancy of communism.

Lenin loves ya, baby.

This eventually weirds these people out to such an extent, that they stop hitting me with their fists, and GIVE BACK all of our stolen belongings, with the strange mission statement of
‘that’s just not what we’re about.’
Perhaps they just really don’t like communism. Maybe they hadn’t heard that the domino theory was debunked around the same time Jim Morrison died.

Anyway, so after a bit more pushing and shoving, THEY BEGIN TO LEAVE and as they recede into the darkness, one turns around and says ‘Don’t fuck with the KJA”.

In the manner of drunks the world over, I ask Anna in a much too loud voice,
“Is that a radio station?”

This is Hooligan and Addict with you on your morning ride to the crack-den.
Thank God it’s Tuesday!
And congrats to Marty, who guessed that our secret sound was, that’s right, a shivving!

This kind of guff is apparently over the threshold, and they all come storming back, to go through EXACTLY THE SAME PROCEDURE we had already gone through. This time Anna got a bit hysterical, and started roundly abusing them. She managed to construct entire sentences which were 9/10 swears. I’m not sure if it was scary, but it was grammatically implausible. Perhaps this drove them away. Regardless, somehow, we survived to tell the tale, as blurry and hyperbolic as it might be.

0/5 stars